Player
by BlueDaze
Summary: This used to be titled Promises but I decided to make it a standalone instead. Just the mind of a sociopath. Sark-centric


Title: Player

Author: BlueDaze

Genre: drama, angst, 

Spoilers: ATY

Rating: R 

Distribution: Ask first

Reviews: Heck yeah! Just try not to be too harsh. I have issues.

Disclaimer: No they are not mine. I just like playing with them.

Note: Ok this takes place after my fic Eternal Things. 

**Fair Warning to All who read: There may be some themes that you will hate, because I sort of hate them too. You might be able guess one of them by reading this first chapter.  Read between the lines. I will probably put up a more specific warning as the story progresses toward the bad parts. Just thought I'd let you all know.**

**            Nathaniel Sark despised rapists. He considered them to be the lowest form of animal on the face of the earth, lower than vultures and other numerous carrion. He firmly believed that men who forced themselves on the weaker sex deserved to spend eternity in Hell having their testicles chewed off by wild dogs as they watched. Men as repulsive as them had no right to live.**

            When he thought back to the night he forced himself on Sydney Bristow after he murdered her friend, he told himself that he hadn't committed rape- no; he was only doing his job.

            His job was to inflict pain. He had grown quite used to the notion since he went to work for the Man. The treatments he had with Khasinou also helped somewhat. It made the job easier to do. As if anything could make it easier. When the medication wore off, it still did not change the action. He was still a murderer. Still a monster.

            That night, it was his task to inflict as much sorrow on Sydney Bristow as she could endure. His duty was to push her to the brink of her sanity and watch if she stumbled.

            If he might say so himself, he did his job quite well.

            He had been in the graveyard that day when she sent her lovesick case officer away. He watched in secret, in solemn satisfaction as she walked away from the young man. Perhaps he felt a twinge of sympathy for her when she broke down outside the gates.

            It was times like those when he felt as though he'd taken too much. Then again, those moments were as rare as promises that were kept.

            Sark sat in front of his massive fireplace which was the centerpiece of his quaint London flat. He took another sip of his whiskey and let himself reflect upon his actions.

            _Bristow and I play the same game. It's a pity that we should be fated to be on opposing sides. She would've been a fine player if she'd only come around to her mother's way of thinking._

_            Nonetheless, the same rules still apply. She practically wiped out Derevko's network when she destroyed the Mueller device. Almost thirty years of work and research of Rambaldi now nothing more than silt. The rules of the game are clear: when the enemy hits you, you strike back with ten times the force._

_            The hit came in the form of a dead roommate, Ms. Bristow beneath him (inside her) and eyes that refused to beg for mercy. She was quite stubborn like that._

            The pain was cruel, but he knew that it would not be enough to just attack SD6 or the CIA. They were simply institutions to Bristow; one necessary inconvenience to destroy a greater evil. The job held no place in her heart.

            To hurt the girl, you had to destroy what she held dear. He had to let her know that just because she was an elite servant of the government she was not invincible. Derevko and Khasinou agreed that Bristow was getting too sure of herself; she would have to be taken down a notch or two.

            Perhaps she didn't know it at the time. But strip away the praise, the triumphs and she was just as human as everyone else. Like all living things, the pain could pierce her and poke a hole through her safe little world letting all the ugliness pour through. She had to understand that. He had to make her understand that.

            In their world there was no distinction between the Hunter and the deer.

            And pain… he knew a little something about it.

            He'd been dumped in an orphanage ever since he was a baby. In his mind, the mother who left him there was a random wretched whore who was most likely tripped out on acid when he was conceived. That was the story he always told himself to explain why bad things happen to him. It was all that she-demon's fault for screwing him up so badly.

            His foster parents ranged from psychotic to terrifying. There was the widow who preached about the Apocalypse and locked him in the basement for six days when he declared his first obscenity ("to hell with you slag!")

            Then there was the man Nathaniel had nicknamed Dick in his mind. He always smelled of beer, cigarettes, and cheap motels. A revolting specimen all around. Dick always had too much fun when he went at it with his equally base spouse. When he wasn't busy knocking Nathaniel into coffee tables with gilded edges, he was drunk out of his mind. But when he was passed out, it was easy to lift some bus or lunch money.

            And then there was the man Sark dared not remember. Every memory of him was filled with revulsion and shame. The man was soft-spoken and resembled a real father. Sark remembered the honeyed way he used to speak to him. Always coaxing and discreet. A hand brush to the neck, a door opening to a child's bedroom in the middle of the night…

            In that house, Nathaniel was too busy hiding to rage.

            The man died a few months later and Sark never told anyone that he peed on his grave.

            He ran away after the last foster parent. He stayed with the older boys that he considered to be brothers. They were comrades in the unfriendliness of the real world, companions. They weren't family but they were tolerable substitute. He taught them things (he was always so bright) and in return they gave him a small semblance of a home.

            Home was an abandoned building infested with squatters, hookers, and drug hounds. The boys sold contraband behind an alley. But it was home.

            Then, one day, came the letter. An envelope with two items: an obituary of his first foster parent, the crazy preacher widow (found dead in her flat), and a note that ordered him to go to the funeral.

            He wasn't sure what forced him to go. Perhaps it was fate, a higher power which guided him to his providence. But he was young and poor. What did he care of destiny?

            He went to the funeral and he was the only mourner who was dressed down in black jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. It was all right; not many were in attendance.

            Nathaniel sat in the back and tried to will some tears to come. Then he remembered the basement.

            Afterwards, a woman in a very posh charcoal suit approached him.

            "You wouldn't happen to be Nathaniel Carton, would you?"

            "Depends," Nathaniel replied, moodily. "Why?"

            "Oh. Well. I am-was- Nancy's lawyer and the executor of her will."

            "Will?"

            "Yes." She studied him before going on. "Are you Mr. Carton?"

            He was unused to people calling him "Mister." It sounded too formal and odd.

            "Well, you happen to be in the will. Honestly I never expected you to come. Nobody had heard of you in years. However did you hear of your foster mother's death?"

            He thought back to the note. "Um… a friend."

            "Lucky friend. Will you come by the house later so I can inform you of your inheritance?"

            Like he had to think about that.

            It was strange to go back to that house. Surprisingly, nothing much had changed. The basement, he was pleased to discover, had flooded.

            The old woman had left everything she had to him. It was a shock, especially when one considered what he called her as a child.

            Besides all her property, there was one other possession. It was a small cedar box. Funny, he had never seen it before when he lived with her. Her lawyer told him it was found in her bedroom and that it must've been a gift.  

            Nathaniel decided to spend that night in the house that he had inherited. He actually missed the familiar feeling of a real house. He didn't bother to open the box.

            As he slept on the antique sofa, springs poking into his back, he was awakened by a loud, annoying rap on the door. He got up to tell whoever it was to bugger off but when he opened the door no one was there. But there was a note.

            OPEN THE BOX

            It was the feeling of destiny once again. He sat on the couch, removed the lid, and peered inside.

            It was a photograph. A cherubic, little girl with fawn-colored hair and sweet little dimples that would've made Heaven weep in rapture. She had a ruffled pink dress, a birthday hat, and was on the verge of blowing out the candles on a cake.

            He stared at the photograph unable to comprehend it. Then he noticed that there were words behind the photo.

            YOUR SISTER. AT FOUR YEARS OLD.

            Sister. The word embedded itself into his brain. 

            He had a sister.

            The path of his life had changed from then on.

            For the first time ever he saw a light in his gloomy future. And what waited in that glow would be the girl in the pink dress only now she was a woman. An angel ready to welcome him with open arms and make him part of a family. She would be there to love him and need him and make him warm with sisterly sentiments and security.

            He was no longer a lost soul fated for oblivion in the streets. He saw himself as an uncle, bringing yams on Thanksgiving, presents on Christmas, wackiness and joy in the lives of faceless nieces and nephews. He saw another better life ready to erase the failings of the old one. He longed for it.

            He longed to find his sister.

            Nathaniel used every resource he had (few were available) to seek his sister. He took degrading jobs just to pay the private investigators, all of whom came up with dead ends.

            He didn't care. He dreamed (and still does) of the day he would meet her. He imagined she would have a safe occupation like a secretary or a teacher. She would be as kind as the mother he never knew. She would be so soft and giving. Innocent.

            The euphoria he felt at knowing he had a sister was equaled only by the day he met Irina Derevko.

            "Excuse me?" Nathaniel turned from the canned goods he was placing on the shelf toward the voice.

            It was a woman. Tall, beautiful, an air of elegance that occasionally comes with a woman of her years.

            "May I help you, ma'am?" he said politely.

            "May I help you?" she echoed back with a sly smile. He detected a hint of Russian in her accent. She handed him a card with an address.

            "I'm sorry ma'am. But I am not an escort service." _What a loon, he thought._

            "Consider the offer Nathaniel." She said his name with such purpose that he looked at her more closely. "If not for yourself-"she turned to leave "-then for your sister."

            His jaw dropped open. She gave him one last enigmatic smile before she disappeared behind the baked goods.

            Of course he went to the address. It was a large, rusty building which somehow managed to look anonymous.

            She waited for him inside.

            And for the second time, his life changed. Whether it was for better or worse he has yet to discover.

            Her name was Irina Derevko. The name alone would've been enough to take any job she offered. The job itself seemed to have been ripped right out of James Bond's wildest fantasies. It was almost too staggering to take seriously.

            "Why me? Why choose me? I'm nobody."

            Irina smiled her disarming smile again. " The people who say that are always the ones who become legends. I have been watching you for awhile Nathaniel. You have the potential to be great."

            He wasn't sure about the potential. And he still had no idea why she had chosen to honor him with such a job. Nor did he feel the need to question it. He only cared about one thing.

            "What do you know of my sister?"

            She let out a silvery laugh. "What makes you think I know anything about her?"

            "In the market you said-"

            "I knew you were searching passionately for her. And that you are quickly running out of leads and resources to find her. Take this job," she said, an eerie glow to her eyes," and you will have access to everything you need to find her."

            Deal.

            Years passed. Sark , as he was now called (he couldn't remember since when), came no closer to finding the girl who shared his blood. Slowly, he ceased to care. A warm home and a loving family lost so much meaning after so much bloodshed and intrigue.

            The birthday girl and all her ideals became as thin as mist. Any hope of finding her was as far away as redemption. 

            With each new atrocity dealt by his hand, he saw her blurry image hovering over him. The image no longer offered him comfort but judgement.

            How could he face her after the things he had seen and done? She'll take one look at him and she'll know… all his sins and flaws. What right did he have to feel love or happiness or hope? These days he could hardly feel his own skin.

            His thoughts turned back to Bristow. He felt his hand tighten around his glass.

            _It was wrong. It was overkill. But she offended her mother. So she must be taught a lesson._

_            He made the roommate died painlessly. The drug he slipped her was nothing more than a fatal sleep._

            _Life's overrated._

_            And Bristow…last he checked, he had cut herself off from her remaining friends and her father. She built a wall around herself and he supposed he should be grateful for that._

            Perhaps it was what Irina had planned all along. Push Sydney Bristow toward the open mouth of the grave and bury her in it. 

            _Maybe she'll come around. How different can mother and daughter be?_

_            Sark-Nathaniel- closed his eyes._

            And he remembered…a pig-tailed child in a pink dress. Innocent. Lovely.

            And Sydney Bristow as she screamed, cried, and suffered as he violated her with an empty heart.

            He, personally, did not want to hurt Bristow. Not that it mattered anymore. He did it for the job. He did it for Irina. And he did it for her.

            Nathaniel Sark stood up and headed for the bathroom. He took a scalding shower for the fifth time that day because he knew that the dirt would never wash off.

To be continued

_Ok so for anybody who read Eternal Things, you're probably wondering why I am trying to make __Sark__ a tortured soul when I made him such a bastard in the last story. In the Things he was totally evil and truthfully I wasn't really planning on writing a sequel. The reason he is the way he is will be explained (I hope).Anyways I decided to make this story a standalone since I wanted the actual sequel to be more Vaughn-centered._


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